This. Means. WAR!

Last year, it was fruit flies.

This year, it's motherfucking ANTS!

This Job has been invaded, invaded I say, by six-legged demons from the spawning pits of Hell!

I was sweeping up the sprinkles and nuts behind the register when I noticed some of the chocolate sprinkles seemed to be moving.

Okay...a lot of them were moving...and segmented...and were way smaller than chocolate sprinkles should be and HOLY CRAP ANTS! ANTS IN MY STORE! DIE! DIEDIEDIEDIEDIE!!!

So I called the store manager to see if this development merited a freak-out. Kickass Manager was peeved, but not freaked, and suggested that we should sweep and mop behind the counters more often than once a week (maybe) like it says on the list.

Well, being the daughter of Mum, a.k.a. "She who vacuums up lady bugs with extreme prejudice." I snatched up the broom, sent Depressive to fetch the mop, and attacked. Sadly, there were stupid ice cream customers and I couldn't pull out the far counter for a good ten minutes. When they finally went away I swept every inch of exposed floor and swabbed like a shanghaied cabin boy staring down the business end of a flintlock.

I want those ants DEAD! No way in Hell am I gonna be responsible for the mass poisoning of This Job customers. I may hate their greedy, self-absorbed asses, but I will not be the one to whom the CDC traces the epidemic.

Oh, yeah, I'm so about to become my coworkers' worst nightmare.